The Overseer
by streetlights and music
Summary: The man in the moon – Manny, as North calls him – never paraded himself around as an honest, good man. (Or the one where the MiM is a royal jerk, but not a completely cold-hearted one.) Fill for the ROTG kink meme.


**Word Count:** 823.

**Warnings:** Canonical Character Death. And, er, the MiM being a jerk. Kinda.

**Notes: **Fill for the ROTG kinkmeme. The prompt:

_The real reason the Man in the Moon made Jack into the spirit of winter isn't because he was suited to being a Guardian. It was because MiM is kind of a dick, and watching some poor kid suffer for 300 years is an entertaining way to pass the time._

_Up to anon if the Guardians ever end up paying attention to Jack even if he isn't "selected."_

_+500 Someone figures out the why - or guesses it._

* * *

The man in the moon – Manny, as North calls him – never paraded himself around as an honest, good man.

The Guardians may look up to him as their guiding light and the absolute law; it's not like he would ever deny himself of their adoration and practiced obedience. He got a few kicks out of their stories, like when the Pooka single-handedly built an entire continent. Or when the Boogeyman was tormented and became the one thing he had once abhorred.

It's funny what a little whisper, a few half-lies and half-hearted truths, can do. He's got them all wrapped around his finger, really. He shuffles his words; gives a little too much and little short of nothing. A touch of immortality, a sense of security and hope, a little encouragement. Weaves their futures quietly, their desires laced with subtle layers not really their own. And maybe there are a few… mishaps along the way, but what does that matter?

He's never failed a charge of his yet, and nothing really counts much after that. The man in the moon has always been a believer of the ends justifying the means. They never question because he would always say _it's for your own good_, in a language that masks his simplicity for cryptic deception. But sometimes, it's really just for the shits and giggles.

(He will never lead them to their own deaths, but he never promises sweet journeys and loose-laced adventures either. He's not kind enough for that.)

He's been around. Has existed longer than the seasons, long before the first man, and long enough to see the way history has shaped the present. There are always new things, new stories, and some that are told time and time again. But they never get old, because the human spirit never tires and never ceases to evolve. To fascinate. And really, what is the moon but a witness to the will of humans?

So he watches over. Watches over time and lives and change. Watches over the way the girl curls her fingers around her brother's. Watches them skate and laugh and slip and falter.

Watches the boy hop one, two, three, and sink down like an anchor.

And he calls him up, up from the watery grave and away from where ice and wind and the suffocating pressures of deep lake water drag him down. He's surely dead, but it would be a shame to see him go now. And the man in the moon has always been generous; there's nothing worse than death the humans say, and what better alternative to death than life?

He calls him up. The boy breathes ice and snow, exhales frost from his fingertips, and flutters about light-weight like snowflakes in the wind. And maybe making him the winter spirit is a bit too much, but the man in the moon is already doing him a great enough favor keeping him as (faux) alive as possible. Surely he can keep some things to himself. The boy's memories. A chance at amusement. _Entertainment._

(He'll let him know, one day. But immortals have never been sensitive to the passage of time. Surely the boy can wait a little longer, could he not?)

It's almost like a pause in the rift. He watches him talk to himself to fill up the unbearable silence; watches him scream and shout and _screech_ until his voice has gone raw and hoarse. Watches him watch the funeral by the lake, destroying himself more and more without even knowing it. Watches as the years pass by, one by one, and his charge goes from confused to frustrated to resigned.

Time passes. It stops, and it starts. But the boy remained a ghost. Existing, and at the same time, not.

(What is time anyway, but an illusion?)

And the man in the moon looks down at him, observes his meager attempts at human connection. He's seen him laugh and smile. He's seen him cry and break down. He's seen him weave his own story, one that starts with snow and leads to anywhere. Nowhere. The man in the moon listens. Waits. Learns the ways of the human heart.

(For he is most certainly a man, but not mortal. Completely detached enough to barely even be called _human._)

The boy asks, prods, but the man in the moon doesn't answer. But he smiles when the boy looks up at him. Delights in how the boy conjures his reflection in the ice and encourages his vanity. Revels how the boy dances alone amidst the flurries of snow, aware of his solitude and the only audience that could see him.

(Falters when the boy cries out, but he can't speak. Not yet.)

**.**

The boy is his for the next three centuries.

(It's the first time he claims someone for his own purpose.)

**.**

The man in the moon – Manny, as North calls him – never paraded himself around as an honest, good man.

But he's been alone, and alienated. But he doesn't parade himself for that, either.

* * *

**Notes:**

I haven't read the books yet, so whatever backstories I mentioned are based on what I gathered from the internet on the fly.

So I was going for a balance here, trying to make the MiM out as a terrible character you can sympathize with somewhat, but whose actions you won't exactly condone. He's a jerk, but not a heartless one. And my headcanon for this prompt is that the reason Jack was alone for 300 years was because the MiM wanted to keep him to himself for a little while.

I'm not sure how well my ideas were presented in this fic though, so feedback would be appreciated. But nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed reading this even if my ideas didn't gel well with the fic.


End file.
